


Happy Birthday

by cosmic_llin



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Artifact Sex, F/F, Femslash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_llin/pseuds/cosmic_llin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene and Jane visit a lesser-known part of the Warehouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

Naturally, there was a room full of sex artifacts in the Warehouse. It only made sense - the emotionally-charged events that created artifacts were often connected with sex and romance. Prudently, the room had excellent security, and very few people knew the password that would permit entrance.

Jane was pretty sure Pete didn’t know about it, but Myka had read the entire Warehouse manual from cover to cover and Claudia did a lot of cataloguing, so they probably did. She knew for a fact that neither of them had been in there, though.

She had. Just the once. Irene had let her take a look, on one of her birthdays. A special present, she’d said. After you punched in the password, you passed through a sort of airlock where cold jets of steam fired at you from all angles. While you were in the airlock you had to put on a protective suit and helmet from a locker there.

‘It’s to avoid skin-to-skin contact with another person while you’re in the presence of the artifacts,’ Irene told her. ‘Among this much raw sexual energy, the slightest touch can have consequences.’

Jane grinned, then schooled her expression to seriousness when Irene didn’t smile back. They finished suiting up, and Irene let them into the room.

The effect was immediate. Jane’s face flushed. Raw sexual energy was right.

It looked just like any other part of the Warehouse - rows of shelves that towered above them, labels on the shelf edges, lamps at intervals. The artifacts were perhaps a bit more spaced out than normal. And when you looked closer, some of them were... well. A bit unusual.

‘Is that...’ she asked, nodding at the contraption that had a whole shelf to itself.

‘George Taylor’s manipulator,’ Irene confirmed.

Jane ventured closer, and as she did her heart began to beat faster.

‘Highly addictive,’ Irene said. ‘Once an agent touched it - just touched it - and it took us three months to get her back to work.’

‘Huh...’ said Jane, absently. She swallowed, trying to ignore the heat spreading through her. Instead she looked around her, at the other artifacts.

Some of them looked innocent enough. They wandered down the row, and Irene described each artifact and its effects.

‘This one increases sexual stamina, this one increases arousal, and this one,’ she pointed to an innocuous-seeming wooden chair, ‘had to be removed from a pub in Nottingham, England because every woman who sat on it became pregnant. And I mean _every_ woman. Regardless of whether or not they’d had sex, or even had a uterus.’

Jane whistled. She didn’t feel equal to speech just now.

Irene continued down the line. Through a haze of arousal Jane dimly noted that, the further they went, the more determinedly clipped and formal her commentary became, and the more her hand trembled when she pointed the artifacts out.

Jane’s protective suit was too bulky and thick, it weighed her down. When she gave up and let her fingers probe between her legs, she could barely feel anything at all. With a moan of frustration, she sank to her knees to try a better angle.

Irene looked down at her.

‘All right, you’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘Time to get out.’

She extended her hands to pull Jane upright, and for a moment they clung together, suits crackling against one another. Irene drew her closer, and Jane felt the shape of her through the thick material, and gasped.

Irene pulled away. ‘Jane,’ she said, low-voiced. ‘Jane, come on, we have to go.’

She took her hand and hurried her back the way they had come, until they reached the airlock door again. Jane stopped, turning for one last look, but Irene dragged her through the door and closed it tightly behind them. It bleeped as the security systems took over.

Jane pulled off her helmet. She could barely feel the jets of cool air, but she knew they were there because they made her hair tickle her neck and it was excruciating. Irene had discarded her helmet too, and in a moment her mouth was on Jane’s, her warm breath and her soft lips and her skin and the corner of her glasses poking Jane’s cheek as they pulled each other closer, and Jane’s fingers trailed down her neck and met resistance, and if she could have she would have ripped that damn suit off with her teeth, but they made do with tugging and wriggling until the two suits lay on the floor beside the helmet, and most of their clothes besides, and at last they were skin-to-skin, both of them hot to the touch, and _now_ she could feel everything, now there was nothing to get in her way. They moved together, and her shaking fingers worked, and at the same time Irene’s touch dizzied her, not just what she was doing with her hands but everywhere their bodies met, a dozen sweet, pulsing places.

She tried to call Irene’s name but she couldn’t get her mouth to cooperate, it just came out as ‘I... I... I...’ with a gasp where the rest should have been. And then suddenly she could barely catch her breath at all, but what did it matter, who needed to breathe?

Irene whimpered, and her whole body clenched around Jane’s tingling fingers, and the Warehouse lights flickered.

‘Happy birthday,’ Irene said, her voice a whisper.

‘Ha!’ Jane laughed. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested, the pregnancy chair is real! It's in the oldest pub in England, the Old Trip to Jerusalem, and these days they use it in contraception awareness campaigns.


End file.
